You
by JacAlley
Summary: An ongoing series of Punk/John drabbles, one shots, and vignettes written in the second person. Because there's something a little risky about that. Rated M for a variety of reasons. Slash.


Annalore prompted (read: dared) me to do something in second person. She was in Cape Cod at the time, so I was inspired. This is set during the week after MITB when the East Coast was in that gross heat wave.

And then she prompted me for real. And now I have a few prompts in my head. This is where all my John/Punk second person point of view drabbles and one shots will go. Feel free to drop me prompt words/phrases, and if I'm inspired, I will write them.

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_Prompt: Cape Cod_

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You're not really sure how you got roped into this.

Your ankle is pretty jacked because, of course, the one time you go out to do any segment in sneakers, you land all wrong and sprain it. The swelling is finally going down, but it's still pretty sensitive, and you feel like a real dick for ever ribbing John over his Achilles pull. Monday night and most of Tuesday morning were spent on crutches, but you're managing to limp around now – not that the rocky sand gives you much purchase.

John had been insistent that you come with him for the long weekend before you guys go down to Texas and then overseas for the rest of the month. He claimed it was so you could relax, but you know he wants to keep an eye on you, wants to make sure you don't try and wrap your foot and go for a 10-mile run through the city. (Not that you are even that crazy; putting any weight on that leg is nearly excruciating right now. Of course an ankle sprain would be the downfall of the great CM Punk.)

He wants time with you before he's off to Australia and Asia and you're off to Africa.

So the morning after Raw, he dragged you to Cape Cod.

He'd told you plenty of stories of coming as a kid, and as happy as he always sounded, you never imagined he actually still visited. Someone like John Cena should be laying on the beach at a five star golf resort in Hawaii, not borrowing his parents' summer bungalow _here_. But John was always full of surprises, and even though you expected them, he still managed to knock you on your ass every now and again.

You got up after a restless night when the sky was still soft, sweat-dampened sheets sticking to your back and legs. The backs of your knees slid against each other, and _fuck_ was it miserable and humid, even this early.

Stupid heat wave.

You wandered through the house, struggling to limp carefully around tables and umbrella stands (could John's mom honestly pack this place with anymore nautical themed shit?). Out on the beach, the breeze was refreshing, spreading over your slick skin, cooling the sweat where it laid.

You thought about all of this: the being here with John, the stifling heat, the twinge in your ankle. It's nothing new. John is always there, the heat comes around for half the year, you seem to always find yourself with some new ache. But now it feels so different.

There's something light about all of this. The last few weeks since your comeback have been great. The 'Hawks won the Cup. You've been having fun. The weekend before had gone so well, even if you'd cracked your head open.

There's something so weird going on. You can't put your finger on it. Maybe you're happy? The thought might not seem so far-fetched to others, but to you, it's like hell has froze over.

Sharp rapping on glass has you turning back to the house, and there's John in the window. The questioning look he gives you – the furrowed brows and the confused smile – reeks of sleepiness. His eyes are still glassy, like he isn't thinking at a hundred percent yet. You just smile back and shake your head, taking another minute to cool yourself off.

His goofy, dazed smile in response was enough to have you speed-hobbling back to the house.

By the time you make it to the bedroom, he's back in bed. You slide in next to him and he pulls you in close, tucking you under his chin. Even though you normally complain about it until he laughs in your face and tells you to be quiet, you really love this. There's something about giving a little bit of control up, of letting John protect you from the world or whatever. Even though it was scary at first, now it's comforting. It's relaxing. It's stress relieving.

"Why were you up?"

"It's gross in here."

"There's a nice breeze…"

"Yeah, by the window. On your side of the bed. All your body heat made the covers stick to me."

"_My_ body heat?"

"You're a furnace."

"It's 90 degrees. I think it was more than just me."

"John?"

"Yeah?"

"Shut up."

You press a kiss to his lips, knowing if you don't, he'll try and sass you. You need to keep him quiet.

You're not really sure how you got roped into this either. One day you and John were fine, were friends, were straight. Sitting around watching baseball.

And then John was sliding into home.

You'd never really discussed it. You never had to; it had all happened so organically. One second you were complaining about the Cubs and the next you were screaming that John needed to touch your dick before you passed out. And he had. And he'd never acted weird about it. And you'd never acted weird about having his dick inside you.

It was the natural progression of things. It just happened. Everything was the same. Just with one bed and more touching. And if John's smiles made you melt a little now…well, that came with the territory.

And now you realize, John roped you into this trip by roping you into this. Because John Cena could rope you into anything.

* * *

I promise the next chapter of Gradients is coming. I just…yeah. But it's coming!

Also, one day I will finish my AJ/Kaitlyn drabble series. Probably all at once


End file.
